by Jana DeLeon
“Oh, only five minutes or so,” Gertie said, “but it will take me the other ten, at least, to jog back to my house.”
“You have got to start working out,” Ida Belle said as they headed down the hall.
“I work out.”
“Knitting is not a workout.”
Chapter Seven
I was still grinning when I ran upstairs to change. The front door banged shut as I flipped through the sparse selection of girl clothes hanging in my closet. Finally, I pulled a white sundress with pink roses on it out of the closet. It looked like the item least likely for me to wear either as myself or as my prior undercover persona.
My hair was in reasonably good shape, so I pulled it back in a ponytail as Ida Belle had suggested and plugged in the curling iron. While I was waiting on the curling iron to heat up, I put on some moisturizer and a bit of lip gloss. Despite my considerable dexterity under normal circumstances—normal for me, anyway—I still hadn’t mastered putting on the eye stuff without poking myself in the eye, so I left it off.
I flipped the ends of my ponytail around the curling iron, making sure I didn’t leave it on long enough to burn the hair off. Who knew those things got that hot? I took one final look in the mirror before slipping on some pink sandals, then snagged a pistol from Marge’s secret stash, careful to avert my eyes from the full-length mirror in her bedroom. I was afraid my appearance would nauseate me, and I really needed to eat breakfast. When you agreed to escapades with Ida Belle and Gertie, you never knew what you might get. It was always best to maintain your energy level at its peak.
I was just finishing scrambled eggs when I heard Gertie’s Cadillac pull in my drive. At least, the engine sounded like Gertie’s Cadillac, but an odd clinking sound accompanied it now that I hadn’t heard before. I tossed my dishes in the sink, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.
Then stopped and stared.
One glance was all I needed to put the clinking sound into perspective. The front bumper, which previously could have charitably been referred to as mildly serviceable, was now a rolling eyesore. It was mangled and dented and popped forward on each end of the car. Bright pink and green duct tape held the whole thing in place. All hope that we could make this trip unobserved went straight out the window.
“Stop gawking and get in,” Ida Belle yelled from the passenger’s window.
Despite the hundreds of really good reasons this was a bad idea, I walked down the sidewalk and hopped in the car. Gertie took off down the street, the bumper flapping in the wind.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to pull the bumper off?” I asked.
“It’s wedged stuck in the middle,” Ida Belle explained. “I couldn’t pull it out and Gertie couldn’t find her crowbar.”
“At least I got the squirrel out of the grill,” Gertie said.
Ida Belle nodded. “Dinner at my house tonight.”
I grimaced. It was definitely a Hungry Man night for me.
The drive to Mudbug seemed to comprise one long stretch of the same piece of marsh, but we passed the time by speculating on the Pansy situation and Ida Belle and Gertie arguing over the last season of American Idol. Since I’d been rousted out of bed too early, I spent the arguing time dozing until Ida Belle poked me and said we were there. I propped myself upright and took my first look at the town.
Mudbug looked very similar to Sinful, only slightly bigger. It had one main street with worn brick buildings and the same southern charm, and I wondered how many of these tiny towns with bayous, banana pudding wars, and deadly wildlife Louisiana contained. Then I wondered how many of them had an abnormally high percentage of murders given the population.
At the corner of Main Street stood a statue of a frumpy older woman, but what caught my attention was the added extra that someone had placed on the gray plaster.
“Who is that woman in the statue?” I asked.
Ida Belle looked over at the statue. “Some rich woman who died and left the town property.”
“Why is she wearing a cone bra?” I asked, particularly pleased with myself for recognizing it from a music video I’d seen last night.
Ida Belle waved a hand in dismissal. “Probably kids.”
At the end of Main Street, Gertie turned and followed a winding road that ran parallel to a bayou. Houses were larger than those I’d seen closer to town and spaced farther apart. Finally, Gertie swung into a driveway and followed the circular drive up to the front of the house.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked, looking out at the large plantation-style home sitting on a well-manicured acre of land.
Ida Belle checked her phone and nodded. “This is the address he gave me.”
“I don’t see any snipers or killer dogs,” Gertie said.
“If you saw them,” I pointed out, “they wouldn’t be snipers.”
“It doesn’t look scary at all,” Gertie said.
“In my experience,” I said, “that’s usually the worst case, but this time, I suspect someone’s playing a joke on Ida Belle.” I climbed out of the car. “Let’s get this over with.”
We walked up the sidewalk to the front door and I pressed the doorbell, somewhat relieved when no sounds of killer dogs were forthcoming. After several seconds, I pressed the bell again.
The door flew open and I looked straight down a hall and into a living room. Then I adjusted my gaze down…way down.
Male—maybe ten years old, four feet six, seventy pounds soaking wet, skin that had never seen sunlight, which was rather a frightening contrast to his black hair and blue eyes.
“May I help you?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re here to see, um…The Sorcerer?” I barely kept myself from cringing at how stupid that statement sounded. Why hadn’t Ida Belle gotten a real name? It had never occurred to me that a techno-anarchist might have a normal life, complete with wife and kids.
He studied us for several seconds, then his gaze settled on Ida Belle. “Are you Killing Machine 1962?”
“Yes,” Ida Belle said.
He stuck his hand out. “I’m The Sorcerer.”
I tried to control my surprise as Ida Belle shook his hand, not quite managing to hide her own amazement. How in the world had she not clued in to the fact that her gaming buddy was younger than her wardrobe? More importantly, how had this scrawny, pasty child managed to convince intelligent adults that he was some kind of cyber vigilante?
“Aren’t you just adorable?” Gertie said, beaming at The Sorcerer.
I frowned. Maybe the “intelligent” part of my question was the problem.
“This are my friends, Gertie and Fortune,” Ida Belle said.
“A pleasure to meet you,” The Sorcerer said and motioned us inside.
We followed him down the long hallway and through the living room, where an older man and woman sat watching television. They never even glanced over at us, but from the thin frames and pale white skin, I figured they had to be his parents.
He veered off down a hallway to the left and then through a door on the right with a sign hanging on the front of it that read Client Meeting—Do Not Disturb.
“Sometimes, my parents forget I’m working,” The Sorcerer explained, and pointed to a huge ornate desk and chairs in the middle of the room. I slid into a chair between Ida Belle and Gertie, discreetly casing the room. Bookcases ran along every wall, completely circling the room, and every square inch of them was filled with books. I looked at some of the titles—Combinatorics, Brain and Cognitive Sciences, Nonparametric Statistics, Macroeconomics, Advanced Japanese. Yikes.
The Sorcerer took a seat behind the desk and pressed a remote. A panel of bookcases on our left side slid back, revealing four enormous flat-screen televisions, forming a large rectangle on the wall. One of them flashed with New York Stock Exchange information. The others contained market information for different countries. Apparently, the stock market rumors had been accurate. Hopefully, the “money laundering for dr
ug dealers” rumors were stories created to keep people away.
“Your parents don’t mind you doing business in the house?” I asked.
“Why would they?” he answered. “It’s my house.”
All righty then. His parents were probably afraid of him. Heck, for that matter, I was a little afraid of him myself.
“You said you had a law enforcement problem,” he said, getting down to business.
Ida Belle nodded. “My friend Fortune got into a silly argument with an obnoxious woman last night and might have threatened to kill her. All in the heat of the moment, you understand. She wasn’t serious.”
Because I’d been sort of serious, I forced my innocent face. I’d worn it so many times in Director Morrow’s office that I’d perfected it.
“I assume this obnoxious woman is now deceased?” The Sorcerer asked, not appearing the least bit concerned with the subject matter.
Ida Belle nodded. “She was murdered last night around midnight. Fortune is a visitor in Sinful, and the obnoxious woman is the mayor’s niece—”
“And you’re afraid she’ll be railroaded,” he interrupted. “Probably accurate, given the circumstances and small-town mentality, which I am all too familiar with. So what do you want from me?”
“We think the sheriff’s department needs some help getting things right, but of course, they would never allow us to take part in the investigation.”
“So you’re going vigilante to try to solve the murder and get your friend off the hook.” He studied me for a moment, then gave Ida Belle a nod. “That’s admirable, and although I’m skeptical about your potential success, I’m happy to help. You brought the item?”
Ida Belle nodded at me and I pulled the gun from my purse and handed it to him across the desk. For the first time since I’d laid eyes on him, I saw a flicker of emotion. He liked the offering.
“You were right,” he said to Ida Belle. “The gun is pristine and well worth the exchange.”
He opened a laptop, typed something in, and then two of the giant televisions shifted to blank Internet search screens. “What information do you need?”
I held my breath. This was the breaking point. So far, I hadn’t seen any evidence that this kid was willing to break the law, but we were about to find out just how much he liked the gun and/or disliked the government.
“We’d like to know the case details,” Ida Belle said. “Specifically, how she was killed, but any additional information is appreciated.”
He nodded and started tapping on the keyboard. The screens whirled with a series of numbers, scrolling so quickly I could barely tell what they were, much less assign any meaning to them, but apparently all of it made sense to The Sorcerer. Suddenly, the scrolling stopped and the monitor revealed the Sinful Sheriff’s Department’s file server.
“You’re good,” I said, unable to keep my appreciation to myself.
The Sorcerer gave me a “no shit” look, then asked, “Name of the victim?”
Ida Belle gave him the name and he tapped again then frowned.
“A record has been created for the victim,” he said, “but it doesn’t contain any information. Official results from labs and the coroner won’t be available right away, of course, but the attending officer should have made notes. Let me check something else.”
He tapped again and the sheriff’s email appeared. A paltry list of email appeared containing subscriptions to hunting magazines and one highly disturbing reminder to refill a Viagra prescription.
“I take it the sheriff isn’t leading the investigation?” he asked.
“The sheriff is older than dirt and couldn’t lead turtles without being run over by them,” I said. “Deputy LeBlanc is leading the investigation.”
He tapped again and pulled up Carter’s email. We all leaned forward as he clicked to open an email to the coroner, then sat back in disgust over what we’d read.
“Interesting,” The Sorcerer said. “It appears your deputy is smarter than the average small-town guy. He’s electing to keep the entire file in writing until the case is solved. He’s directed everyone to send reports by courier only.” He looked over at Ida Belle. “Does he have a reason to suspect the sheriff department’s system has been compromised?”
Ida Belle squirmed a bit in her chair. “We might have a friend who works as an admin, and she might have known the deputy’s password and used it a time or two.”
The Sorcerer smiled. “We are kindred spirits, Killing Machine, but in the future, you should leave specialties to the specialists, then you can remain undetected.”
Ida Belle sighed. “How was I supposed to know things would get this out of hand? Usually nothing happens in that town.”
He nodded and tapped some more on the keyboard. Then he scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to Ida Belle. “I figure you’re not going to let this go. That code will get you past the sheriff’s department’s security system.”
Gertie’s eyes widened with a bit of fear, but not enough for my taste. Ida Belle happily tucked the numbers in her purse. I could see already that it was going to be a long ride home, fighting all the way.
“Let me do one more thing before you go,” The Sorcerer said and tapped in Pansy’s name in some complicated-looking search engine. The screen flashed and pulled up a single entry—Pansy’s Facebook page.
The Sorcerer opened the Facebook page, scanned it, then blanched. “No wonder someone killed her.” He flipped back to the search engine and pointed at the screen. “Notice I can only find one Internet mention of your victim.”
“Does that mean anything?” I asked.
He nodded. “There are only two kinds of people who don’t have an Internet presence—those who intentionally keep their identity from online sources and those who don’t really matter. Given that your victim has a Facebook page where she has posted over five thousand pictures of herself, I’m going to guess she falls in the second group.”
I frowned. “She mattered so much to someone that they killed her.”
He smiled. “Ironic, yes? She wanted nothing more than fame and attention, and in death, she got both.”
He closed the laptop and handed the gun back across the desk, a wistful look on his face. “As much as I’d like to have the weapon for my collection, I can’t accept it for work I could not complete. But if you have need of my services in the future, I’d be willing to trade again.”
I would have let him keep the gun just to see him work, but I understood his professional code.
“Have you ever thought about doing work for the government or military or both?” I asked, thinking that between me and this kid, we could probably solve most of the world’s problems.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t work with amateurs.”
Chapter Eight
“So what now?” I asked.
We were all back at my house, sitting at the kitchen table and eating a plate of Gertie’s famous chocolate chip cookies, apparently a “requirement” for Ida Belle if she needed to think. If we didn’t solve this murder soon, I was going to need to buy bigger pants, which was alarming if you considered that most of what I had contained stretchy waists.
“We need more information on Pansy,” Ida Belle said.
“Aren’t we going to break into the sheriff’s department tonight?” Gertie asked.
Ida Belle shook her head. “When I talked to Walter earlier he said Carter had been by to stock up on coffee and NoDoz. He’s pulling an all-nighter.”
Walter was the owner of the General Store and Carter’s uncle, and had been in love with Ida Belle for longer than I’d been alive. She’d already turned down so many of his marriage proposals that I wasn’t exactly sure why they were still on speaking terms. I suppose I had to give him points for either temerity or plain stupidity. I was hoping for temerity, as I’d liked Walter from the instant I met him.
“I’ve got nothing, ladies,” I said. “The Internet is a blank and we can’t
go asking Celia what the body looked like when she found it or who hated her daughter enough to kill her, but without even knowing where Pansy lived in LA, we can’t start poking around into what might have gotten her killed. I don’t suppose there’s anyone else in Sinful who might know what Pansy’s been up to since she left town, is there?”
Gertie shook her head. “Maybe someone in Celia’s crew, but they wouldn’t talk to us.”
“And it would get right back to Carter that we were poking around,” Ida Belle said.
“Okay, let’s look at the other angle,” I said, refusing to be defeated. “If Pansy wasn’t followed here by an enemy from LA, then someone in Sinful is the murderer. That means they’ve been holding a grudge for a lot of years. Surely, you’ve got some ideas on that.”
Gertie gave me an apologetic look. “I’m afraid not. Pansy’s shenanigans were all of the teenage type. We tend not to pay much attention to that stuff. I mean, we knew she got around, but I don’t know which girls she pissed off in the process.”
I perked up. “I bet Ally knows.”
“Probably,” Ida Belle agreed, “but we have to be very careful getting her involved. Ally and Celia may not be close, but they’re still family. Everyone will be watching Ally to see which side of this she stands on.”
I sighed. “And they won’t appreciate it if it’s my side. I get it.” The last thing I wanted to do was cause trouble for Ally with Sinful residents. She had to live here after I was gone.
The doorbell rang and we all looked at each other.
“You expecting someone?” Ida Belle asked.
“Who would I be expecting?” I headed to the front door, praying that it wasn’t Deputy LeBlanc, there to arrest me.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Marie and Bones standing on my doorstep. I smiled and let them in the house. The real Sandy-Sue had inherited Bones, her late Aunt Marge’s ancient hound dog, along with the house and everything in it. My first day in Sinful, Bones dug up a leg bone that belonged to Marie’s missing husband, and everything went downhill from there. Marie was one of Marge’s best friends, the chief suspect in the murder of her husband, and she promptly went missing.
